


The burden of choice

by Kami_del_Antro



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Guild Wars 2 Living World Season 5, Light Angst, Sylvari (Guild Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26357899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: Hunter, convert, bounty hunter, murderer. Arlen has been called a lot of things. Infinite refractions in the broken mirror of somebody else's memories.Inspired by Asylum for the Feeling, by Silent Poets
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	The burden of choice

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, after playing Death Stranding, you just gotta put the ost on repeat and let loose.

Arlen washed his face on the sink, clearing the grime of another day, waiting. As he raised up, he saw his blurry reflection on the mirror; a tall, dark figure, looming over the fleeing waters.

Suddenly uneasy, he cleared up the fog from the cold surface, rubbing with his bare hand until his face was clearly visible among the condensation droplets. It was him; always serious, always distant. Faraway eyes, lost in contemplation of something he wasn't quite sure was even real.

He leaned into the mirror, inspecting the pathways of his face, the thorns on his nose and brow, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the square shape of his jaw. And then he leaned back; the bulges of his muscles rippling under his skin as he moved - not quite as barky and stiff as others of his kind. Scars crossed over his chest, tearing up the patterns of his arms, exposing soft, tender skin underneath that shone bright red in the darkness.

The fog obscured the reflection once more. His blurry silhouette seemed not to be long to him. Too big, too imposing.

Once again he cleared the mirror, trying to find something that wasn't there. He was him; no doubt. The chest he felt under his hands when he touched it was his own. The face he palpated with his fingertips was the one in the mirror. The thorns he prickled the flat of his hands with were his - tingling at the contact.

So big. So imposing. As the fog came back once more, a thought made way into his mind.

He looked dangerous.

As he cleared the mirror again, Arlen frowned. He not only _looked_ dangerous; he was dangerous outright. Thief, thug, bodyguard, hired gun. Murderer all the same. He had seen death wash over him with no remorse or fear. He had inflicted pain, and fear. He had stalked, pursued, killed. And he didn’t always knew why.

 _It was a job_ , he sometimes thought. _It was only a job._

But those strong arms were made for killing. Those sharp, attentive eyes were made for a predator. _Like a wolf. Like a bird of prey_.

He lowered his head to the sink as the fog blurred the world once more, leaving only his darkened, blurry reflection.

Some of them deserved to die. Some of them had to die. The world could be cruel and dark - someone had to get their hands dirty. Even the _heroes_ he now hanged out with killed.

 _Even the heroes_.

He cleared the glass, leaning into the reflection, supporting his weight on the cold, wet ceramic of the sink. The tip of his nose could almost touch his reflection's.

The eyes of a killer. The body of a warrior. He was made to kill. He was made to fight.

 _He was made for the war he had been running from since the day he'd awakened._ The thought was suffocating.

But, what was him if not a murderer, a warrior? What was left for him in a world torn apart by war and conflict?

Who was him before it all began?

 _My little Soundless hunter_ , he heard a voice on the back of his mind. A painful, sharp murmur, like a dagger for his senses. Always a hunter. Even when he was the prey.

His own breath blurred his reflection once again. A dark figure that loomed over his future.

He didn’t want to kill but it seemed like he had no choice in the matter. He wished to run away, but he had been running from the wrong terror to the arms of a conflict he wished no part in. He was no hero, no gentle soul in an heroic pursuit.

He was a murderer.

And what would be of him when everything was dead and gone? What would be of him when all the wars had been fought? When all the prey lay down at his feet?

Did a world like that had a place for the likes of him?

He closed his eyes - the dark reflections of his face vanishing in a soothing darkness. And he remembered when the world was uncomplicated, and killing was easy, and love was a dangerous chimera.

He remembered when he was alone, and his fears were soothed in a lonely existence that could tear his heart apart now that he knew what was behind its veil.

He longed for ignorance. But it was too late to turn back now.

Resolute now, he ignored his reflection to grab his coat and boots, getting dressed and ready for whatever war could bring his way. And still, his hand, gloved in leather reinforced with iron, hesitated over his rifle.


End file.
